


12:25

by LaughableLament



Series: Wincestmas [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12 Days of Wincestmas, Christmas Fluff, Gen, Melancholy, Motel life, Pre-Series, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 23:06:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9293630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: Meant to be here hours ago





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thep0rnfairy (Jesibella)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jesibella/gifts).



John cuts the engine outside Room 38. Heels of his hands dig at his eyes. Rain sheets under the streetlights, hammers the roof. If he can get inside without making too much of a racket…

Tiny tree’s still wrapped in its blanket, rest crammed in a duffel. Meant to be here hours ago, before the boys bunked down. Sammy’s never even had a stocking, let alone chimney to hang it by. Dean can’t remember his.

John swallows and faces the rain. Empties the backseat, coat up over his head. Fumbles for the key and pushes in. Barely even sees Sam, just Dean, curled in the far bed, whole body shielding his brother’s. Sad little smile and John sets the duffel down, nice and easy on the battered couch.

He’s about half-unwrapped a long strand of lights, when—

“Dad?”

John lifts a finger to his lips and Dean mouths _yessir_. Sits at the wobbly table. John digs in his Santa sack. Candy canes, tiny. Ornament hooks. Dean nods and starts assembling.

Not twenty minutes later Sammy’s up. Rubbing his eyes and yawning baby-bird enormous. “Did Santa come?”

“He did, pal,” John says, “but Dad screwed up. I didn’t have the tree decorated in time so he had to leave your loot with me.” Dean grins and John ruffles his hair. “C’mon. Thought we’d have to skip this, but…”

Packs of popcorn go in the microwave. Sam’s too young to work the needle but Dean lets him help anyway. Clock radio runs carols as kernels and cranberries fill up the line. Two o’clock comes and goes and John knows he oughta put them to bed. Let them wake up to their Christmas, their presents, their tree.

Dean’s way ahead of him. “C’mon, Sammy. Past our bedtime.”

“Aren’t we gonna open presents?” Sam scrunches his face up. “Santa was already here.”

Dean’s eyes, moon-wide.

“Why not?” John shrugs. Grabs joy where he can. “Dean, you mind?” He nods at his duffel.

“Yes, sir!”

Sammy squeals and giggles and Dean hands out packages.

And, yeah. Half Sam’s stuff is Dean’s old stuff, dug out of storage and scrubbed up. Kid’s four. Dean, though, squints at a fistful of green plastic soldiers and Christ alive, he could be thirty-four, the way he comprehends.

John saves the Hot Wheels for last ’cause he knows what’s coming. Race to the bathroom floor where busted grout divides drag strips.

“Vroom vroom!”

“Knock it off!”

And, “Stay on your side!”

“Come on, guys, time for bed,” John says, third time his chin droops to his chest. Probably be out ten hours, the week he’s had.

Dean tucks Sam in, John tucks Dean in. Boys tuck against each other, Dean protective and Sam adoring. Be too big for this soon, but for now…

John sinks to the couch. One last package in Santa’s sack. Not your traditional Christmas turkey but wild it is. He pours a finger in plastic and drinks to Singer, genius asshole son of a bitch.

_He knows half what he thinks he knows, this time next year…_

John pictures eight feet of tree bright-lit over four feet of gifts. Fireplace covered in stockings, table spread with—Okay, that’ll still be Boston Market. John laughs low. Visions of sugarplums…

_Next year_ , he thinks. _Next year this’ll all be over._


End file.
